


Remember When

by Practicefortheheart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Retirementlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 15:19:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3452030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Practicefortheheart/pseuds/Practicefortheheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looks peaceful now, soft lips slightly open, skin stretched over the pronounced cheekbones, lashes frail and delicate. His impossible beauty. John wants to keep him like this forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember When

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loveanddeathandartandtaxes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveanddeathandartandtaxes/gifts).



> This is the first thing I have ever written, and I couldn't have done it without my lovely [Felicia](http://loveanddeathandartandtaxes.tumblr.com/)! Happy birthday, babs!
> 
> And a big thanks to [Syldoran](http://commonlynonsensical.tumblr.com/), for looking it over for me. <3
> 
> I've been changing things after they had a look, so all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Also: I'm so sorry.
> 
> <3

The first thing Sherlock forgets are - shockingly - the bees. He’s usually very precise, checking every two weeks if everything is in order. It’s been nearly three weeks now, and it worries John.

“I’m going to have some tea. With your special honey. Do you want some, Sherlock?” He asks, too innocently, a sure tell for Sherlock, but he doesn’t care.

Sherlock looks up sharply at the question, before his gaze flicks to the window, where he can just see the hive boxes at the back of their garden. The sunlight makes his face seem soft and warm, and for a second he looks young again.

“No, thank you, John, I think I’ll take a look at the hives”.

John nods. Sherlock shuffles outside. John watches golden dust particles dance in the beam of sunlight still illuminating Sherlock’s chair and takes a deep breath.

Sherlock comes back inside a little later, smelling of grass and smoke. He lowers himself onto the sofa, next to John who had dozed off while pretending to read the paper. He feels Sherlock's fingers slip in his own. Squeezing. They are rough from work in the garden, from experiments gone wrong, cuts and burns. Still long and slender. Still beautiful. It’s quiet. John is content to just sit here, in their sofa, with Sherlock’s hand in his. But then he feels Sherlock’s shoulder shaking, and when he looks up, Sherlock’s head is down, black curls tumbling forward and he can hear him sob quietly. The only thing he manages to say is John’s name. John pulls him into his own body, close to his heart.

“I know, love. I know”.

 

***

 

_“But do we have to keep them? Can’t you, I don’t know, study someone else’s bees?”_

_“Honestly, John, you’re being unreasonable.”_

_“If you get bored of them, I’ll be the one to take care of them, and I don’t particularly feel like spending my old age tending to bees.”_

_“I won’t get bored of them.”_

_“You get bored of everything!”_

_“I didn’t get bored of you.”_

 

***

 

When John wakes up, Sherlock is still sleeping. It’s not that unusual anymore. Old age made him give in to his transport a bit more. John takes the time to look at Sherlock closely. His hair, still full and inky, spills over the pillow in a messy halo of curls. Only at his temples there are some silver streaks, but it give him a distinguished look. John likes it. He looks peaceful now, soft lips slightly open, skin stretched over the pronounced cheekbones, lashes frail and delicate. His impossible beauty. John wants to keep him like this forever, protect him, keep him safe from what’s coming, but he knows that’s not what Sherlock would want. So he just pushes his nose in the hollow between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder and breathes him in, lets his lips slide over warm skin and leaves him there, in the morning light, a dream.

 

Sherlock wanders into the kitchen later, in his dressing gown, looking sleepy.

“I smell coffee,” he croaks. John nods at the table.

“Black, two sugars,” he replies.

Sherlock scrapes the chair over the tiles, sits down, reaches for the paper, and starts complaining about it immediately. John is making eggs and toast. Sherlock refuses to eat. John is reminded of all the mornings they shared in 221b and smiles at the stove.

 

***

 

_“Good morning.”_

_“Hmmmmm, morning, Sherlock.”_

_“Did you sleep well?”_

_“I did. You’re still here.”_

_“I am.”_

_“Don’t have a case?”_

_“Didn’t check my messages.”_

_“Wow.”_

_“What?”_

_“You really do love me.”_

 

***

 

John is struggling with the plastic bags, fumbling to get the door open, when he hears Sherlock shouting and, apparently, destroying his study. He drops the bags and goes to investigate. He finds Sherlock in the middle of his room, surrounded by papers and books, the chair pushed over, hands pulling at his hair.

“I can’t find my pen, John, the one the Yard got me when we left London,” he snaps irritably. John stays calm, walks over to Sherlock, grabs his hand. Sherlock is shaking, his fingers cold, his eyes large and frantic in his pale face.

“We’ll find it, love”, John soothes. “Let’s have some tea first, alright? I’ve bought those apple tarts you love so much. Lisette says she makes them just for you, I guess she still wants to steal you away.”

Sherlock snorts, but follows John to the kitchen, calms down, drinks tea. After he eats his apple tart, and half of John’s, he dozes off in his chair. John cleans up the study, finds the pen in the drawer where they’ve kept it since they moved in. He misses Greg. Misses Sherlock. And then he’s angry with himself, because Sherlock is still here; he’s right here.

 

***

 

_“I’m going out!” John calls in the general direction of Sherlock’s room. Their room, he corrects himself. The thought still makes warmth bloom in his chest._

_“Tell Gerald I need a case!” comes a muffled reply, “but nothing under an 8!”_

_John’s steps are light on the stairs. He counts the texts Sherlock sends him while he’s on his way to the pub and smiles._

_“So,” Greg starts conversationally after placing a pint in front of John. “You and Sherlock, eh? It was about time.”_

_“Don’t tell me you had a pool or something.”_

_“I won’t tell you, then.”_

_“God.”_

_“Yes, well. It was pretty obvious.”_

_“Speaking of, when are you finally going to take Molly out to dinner?”_

_“Shut up, Watson.”_

 

***

 

Sherlock is studying his bees when John finds him. He’s taking notes in one of his leather notebooks - the cottage is littered with them. John likes flicking through them, looking at Sherlock’s frantic handwriting - a sign of his mind working faster than his fingers, John guesses - and his fragile drawings of plants and insects.

“Sherlock,” he calls, “Lilly’s here”.

Sherlock looks up at him, frowning against the sun.

“Come and have some lemonade with us, yeah?” he motions to the house, where Lilly is already carrying a tray with a pitcher and glasses from the kitchen to the little garden table.

 

John watches the ice cubes in his glass as they tinkle against each other. A summer sound, he thinks. Sherlock takes Lilly’s small hand in his huge ones.

“Miss Hudson”, he greets her rather formally. Lilly’s smile is warm. They talk about her work in the city, and reminisce about her aunt. Or John does, anyway. Her boys are doing fine, although they can be a handful, Lilly tells them. Baby Emma is sweet as ever. She shows them pictures on her phone. John does his Doctor Watson routine, asking after her eating and sleeping habits. Sherlock is quiet. When she leaves, she promises to visit again soon, and to bring the kids.

“They’ll love your garden, Sherlock, it’s gorgeous!”

Sherlock beams at her.

They watch her drive off, the sun glinting off her little blue car, the smell of dry grass and hot sand in the air.

“Mrs. Hudson…” Sherlock’s voice trails off. John takes his hand.

  
  


***

 

_Mrs. Hudson bustles around in the kitchen and won’t stop talking. John can tell Sherlock tries to be irritated about it, but he can’t quite hide the smugness in his voice._

_“Well, Mrs. Hudson, don’t you think it’s high time you go and inform Mrs. Turner about the recent developments?”_

_“Oh, yes!” She jitters excitedly. “Oh, my boys! I’m so happy for the both of you! Honestly, John, you got me so worried for a bit, with all those women! And poor Sherlock was so heartbroken, it was just awful. But now you’ve finally…”_

_“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock points at the door while John is trying not to choke on his tea._

_“Right,” Mrs. Hudson looks at them warmly, not at all intimidated by Sherlock’s death stare. “I’ll leave you boys to it then.”_

_After they hear the click of the front door they start giggling like schoolboys._

_“Please tell me you didn’t stage the whole thing because you didn’t want to tell her like a normal person?”_

_“When do I ever do anything like a normal person?” Sherlock grins. “Besides, she has been trying to accidentally walk in on us for weeks, I thought I’d do her a favour.”_

_This time John does choke on his tea._

 

***

 

“Do you remember that case with the old lady and her granddaughter, John? The one you liked?”

“I didn’t like her!” John protests.

“Oh, John, you know I can tell,” Sherlock reprimands him.

“Well, she was rather pretty,” he amends.

They’re sitting in their chairs in front of the fire. It’s not that cold yet, but John likes the cozy atmosphere it creates. It revives memories of Baker Street. Their socked feet are pushed together between the chairs. Sherlock wriggles his toes under John’s.

“I was brilliant on that case”.

John hums in agreement.

“You’re always brilliant,” he says.

Sherlock’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I was, wasn’t I.”

 

***

 

_Her dark red hair frames her round face and compliments her creamy skin and big blue eyes. She smiles at them timidly, perched on the chair between John and Sherlock._

_“So, Adriana, can you tell us what happened?” John smiles back at her. Sherlock is glaring at John, but he pretends not to notice._

_She starts to explain the situation - something about antique heirlooms being lost - and he can’t help looking at her and thinking about how his life could have been if things were different. If he was different. If Sherlock hadn’t come back._

_Sherlock interrupts both the girl and his musings with a snapped question and John suppresses a smile. When they are alone again, he crowds Sherlock against the door through which the angelic Adriana has just disappeared. “Jealous,” he murmurs into a delicate ear. And he forgets about alternate endings, about different ways his life could have played out, because Sherlock is back, is his, is warm and insistent and John feels alive._

 

***

 

John is standing in the hallway, a letter in his hand. His fingers are crumpling the paper slightly, knuckles white. He looks at the simple grey border on the paper, the first few words of the poem printed at the top.

He feels Sherlock’s presence behind him.

“John,” he murmurs, softly.

“It’s Molly.” John whispers. He feels a large hand on his shoulder, smoothing his jumper down his back. He turns and grips at Sherlock, his hands fisting in the crisp shirt. He cries. He cries for Molly, for Greg, for Mrs. Hudson, for Sherlock. The tiles are cold beneath his feet, but they don’t move for a long time.

 

***

 

_Molly looks beautiful, her cheeks rosy and her eyes follow Greg everywhere, as if they can’t get enough. Greg is a little drunk, and he looks happier than John has ever seen him._

_John is dancing with Sherlock, or rather, trying not to step on Sherlock’s expensive shoes. He might be a little drunk as well. He remembers the dance lessons in the living room. It seems ages ago. Sherlock is humming in his ear, counting the steps for him. He’s been relaxed all day, only managed to offend the bride twice, but Molly and Greg had just laughed and looked at him fondly._

_It’s a very good day, John thinks._

***

 

They’re in bed. Sherlock’s feet are cold, pressed against John’s. Sherlock’s slim fingers are following the contours of John’s face. They are quiet, breathing each other’s air, gazing at each other. John smiles.

“Do you remember that first time?” he asks. Sherlock’s mouth mirrors his own.

“I do.” His voice still a dark rumble. Lush, John thinks. “We were idiots, back then, wasted so much time”. His fingers slide over John’s lips.

“We’re making it up now, though,” John says, kissing the offered fingertips.

“We are.”

 

***

 

_“John”_

_“What is it, love?”_

_“I never thought I would ever get married.”_

_“But here you are.”_

_“Here we are.”_

_“Hmm.”_

_“I never thought I would grow old, John, I never really thought about that. But I want that now.”_

_“Grow old with me?”_

_“Will you still love me when I’m old and grumpy?”_

_“You’re already pretty grumpy.”_

_“John!”_

_“You know I will. Always.”_

 

***

 

Sherlock wanders into the kitchen, in his dressing gown, looking lost.

“Coffee?” John offers. He nods at the table. “Black, two sugars”.

Sherlock stares at him for a few seconds, sits down, reaches for the mug. John is making eggs and toast. Sherlock eats all of it. John washes the dishes after, remembering all the mornings they shared in 221b and blinks back his tears.

“Why don’t you go check on the hives, love?” He turns, and the sunlight hits Sherlock just so. Just for a second, they’re young again.

 

*

  
  



End file.
